Inevitable
by notapepper
Summary: What happens when the cosmos actually does want things? (FitzSimmons Soulmate AU)


**What is up, Fitzsimmonsers!**

 **This came about as the result of a throwaway scenario I once mentioned in chat with a beta, along the lines of "wouldn't it be _heart-wrenchingly awful_ if…"**

 **And then I wrote it. Of course.**

 **Just a heads up, as with most of my fics, Fitzsimmons is endgame, but that doesn't mean it's a happy road! So stock up on bottled water, bunker down, and please enjoy this angst tornado. *dances away funkily***

 **(PS: Fitz's dad is mentioned in this, but this was written months ago, before we had canon Alistair Fitz, so he's an okay dude.)**

 **(PS2: There's some sexy stuff towards the end, nothing too graphic. It's right after the "some months later" break if you want to skip it.)**

* * *

-o-

 _even if we can't find heaven_

 _I'll walk through hell with you_

-o-

She's almost fourteen when her tattoo changes. The name that had been inked in blue around her neck, spelling out identity of the man she's supposed to fall in love with, fades to a silvery line of stars that drape down her collar like a pendant. He's not dead; or at least, she doesn't think so. Death would turn her soulmark black.

Just in case, she doodles his name in the margins of all her notebooks, like movies have taught her she should, and so that she won't forget it in case it never comes back. But she's never heard of a mark actually changing form, so try as she might she can't puzzle out what it means.

Soulmarks, altogether, are confusing enough. Though it's commonly accepted that everyone has or _will_ have one, some people are born with their tattoos, others get them at puberty, still others at a first sight, touch, or even kiss. Marks range from complete images to half of a set, first words to last words, names, handwriting, and anything else the fickle cosmos wants to throw onto people's bodies in its slapshot game of Cupid.

Despite her natural curiosity, the more Jemma researches soulmarks, the more tiresome they seem. She doesn't _feel_ like half a person, and it seems ridiculous that she should. She's told she ought to count herself lucky that she knows his first and last name, but then, she can't be certain he's gotten the same deal. For all she knows, he could be waiting for a love confession before his tattoo flares into existence.

He'll be waiting a long time, she muses, closing her textbook and heading across campus to her next exam. She's got a curve to ruin.

-o-

He's seen her around, of course. There's no way he would've failed to notice the _other_ teenage prodigy at Sci-Tech. Something nags at him that they'd get on like a house on fire, and making a friend _would_ be nice, but he pushes away the thought that she might be his soulmate. If she is, he's doomed. He's more than willing to put off any big reveals, to rid himself of the awkward curls and the squeak in his voice before he tries wooing the person he's supposed to love forever. If Simmons _is_ his soulmate, she won't want him like this, sixteen and achingly shy, the pasty loner who's never successfully stammered at a girl that pretty without getting stuffed into a cubby by her much larger boyfriend.

Not that Simmons has a boyfriend. Yet. In a world where a large portion of teenagers and young adults still haven't sussed out their soulbond, most people run around throwing themselves at everyone they can, hoping to trigger a connection. Fitz even ended up on the receiving end of a few advances when he let his roommate drag him to a party where the theme, apparently, was "we should kiss just in case it does something."

Soulmate or not, though, there's no way Fitz is going to just go up and talk to her. Not when she's got the right answer for every question, all her homework's typed and bound, and she lays her pristine pages on the top of the stack, wrinkling her nose at the smear of hot cocoa powder marring Fitz's title sheet. Not when she corrected Dr. Vaughn mid-lecture and kept her chin proud through the professor's ensuing (and condescending) ramble. And not after he watched that cabbage-headed sophomore, Daniels Milton, lean over in his seat and mutter something in her ear about how it's always the good girls that end up surprising him.

"The only surprising thing is that you thought that line would work," she snips at Milton, and Fitz chokes, pounding on his chest while she throws him a suspicious glare backwards.

Yep. He's definitely going to have to find something to impress her.

-o-

Soul-Mark Theory 378K. It's the section for conscientious students like Jemma (and that show-off Fitz) who tested out of the pre-reqs, and the miserable souls in the rest of the auditorium who've now sat through two years of Dr. Vaughn's droning.

"Of course, there's a lot we don't know about soulmarks, but here at SHIELD, of course, we make it a habit to study the mysteries of the universe." Dr. Vaughn looks up from the notes he's reading verbatim and scans the crowd dully. "The only thing that we can say for certain is that everyone _has_ a soulmate, someone they're destined to love."

Jemma raises her hand and starts speaking a half second later. "Romantic love, you mean."

Dr. Vaughn adjusts his glasses and focused his disinterested squint on her. "Yes, romantic love matches are the bulk of our case studies."

"But there _is_ such a thing as platonic soulmates?"

He dismisses the notion with a shruggy wave of his hand. "That's never been proven, but it's something of a moot point, Miss Simmons. Marriages are based on more than just attraction."

"Hmm. How unfortunate for those of us who may not _want_ to marry or bear children."

"Ah, yes, some youths today claim a misguided sense of free will and independence for rejecting the connection. I assure you, you'll feel differently once you discover your own bond."

Jemma's eyes narrow, but she pushes ahead. "What about multiple soulmates?"

"Those are extremely rare, and many of the cases studied later admitted to falsifying those tattoos in an attempt to coerce romantic feelings from their target. I would urge you to treat any such claims with the utmost skepticism."

"So, you would have us believe that if someone's soulmate dies, their other half is doomed to an empty life? If, perhaps, a nubile young widow with an above average fashion sense wanted to enjoy herself—"

"Then she should do so by her work and by building up her community, Miss Simmons. Any romantic connection she could seek would be a desperate measure. Lust, perhaps, or companionship," he sneers. "Certainly not love."

"That doesn't sound so bad. At least she gets to choose for herself."

"You're not listening, Miss Simmons. There's no need to go looking for greener grass than the person you've been destined to. The universe doesn't make mistakes."

"But what if it does? Aren't there any cases of a mark changing shape or disappearing?" As he'd said himself, this is SHIELD, where the top minds worked out the world's biggest and most classified questions. And she's been waiting a long time for her answers.

"No." Dr. Vaughn holds up his notes. "Have you been paying attention at all in my class? How do you think we arrived at all of this? Data, Miss Simmons. Centuries of it." He smoothes a hand over his thinning hair. "The numbers don't lie."

"But science is _always_ changing with new information. Don't you think it's possible that—"

"Anything's possible, Miss Simmons. Obviously, we can't poll every person throughout the whole of time. But probable? Quantifiable? If you have no evidence to back up your claims, you can't expect to be taken seriously."

She's done with his smarmy attitude and blurts out, " _I'm_ the proof." She tosses her hair back, showing off the constellations on her neck. "When I was thirteen, my tattoo changed from a man's name into _this_."

Dr. Vaughn sighs in annoyance and shushes the class's gasps. "Miss Simmons, I sincerely doubt you want to risk a visit to Dr. Weaver. Now, you've taken up enough of our time today with your theatrics. Please lower your hand."

It's still the first month of classes, and she's never been sent to the headmaster's office before and doesn't intend to start today. So she bites her lip and grips her pencil until it nearly breaks, and when that mouth-breather Milton tries to chat her up, she shuts him down, only to hear Fitz _laughing_ at her from two rows back.

Anger prickles at her scalp, knowing he'll assume she's making it all up, annoyed that he must think her so attention-starved. She resolves to ignore Leopold Fitz unless she's trouncing him soundly in the class rankings, but for the rest of the lecture, the back of her head itches with his unseen smirk.

-o-

Bless Dr. Hall. Bless his balding, specky, genius head, for having partnered him with Simmons on their latest project. Because finally, at long last, Fitz thinks he might have something to say to her that she'd want to hear.

He's been thinking about what she said to Dr. Vaughn for a few weeks now. Thinking about soulmates, and how nobody wants to talk about the exceptions. He remembers his mum, when his dad had just died, and how everyone looked at her with such pity, like her life was worthless now that her other half was gone. Of course she'd had him to look after, and maybe that's why she always seems so strong, so cheerful and so _whole_. But maybe she wasn't as broken as Dr. Vaughn would have them think. He'd been a mite too young at the time to really understand; thinking on it now, maybe she _would've_ liked to go on dates. Maybe she would've liked to find love again, without being judged or thought less for it. Maybe there _are_ more important things in life than what they've been told over and over by movies and magazines.

And, he thinks, walking up to their shared lab bench, he may have just figured out what to say to Jemma Simmons.

"You forgot unrequited soulmates," he starts without preamble, because Fitz has never been the type to ease fluidly into a conversation.

"Pardon?" The wrinkle in her forehead should warn him off, but it doesn't.

"When you told off Dr. Vaughn last week. You mentioned platonic soulmates and multiples, but you forgot unrequited."

"Ah." Her lips purse. "Well, I also forgot about people who remain unmarked, but if you felt the need to point out my oversights, you could've done it back then." She turned rather brusquely to begin arranging her glassware on the counter. "Of course, then you would have been at risk for Professor Vaughn's ire yourself, so it's hardly surprising you kept mum."

"Wait, no, that's not—" _What?_ This has to be some kind of mucking-things-up record, even for him. And if she _is_ his soulmate, good God— _Are they allowed to revoke your tattoo based on a disastrous opening salvo?_ "Y'know what? Let's, erm, let's start again." He holds out his hand. "Fitz."

"I know your name, Fitz."

He waits expectantly. She rolls her eyes, just the tiniest bit, but clasps her palm to his. "Simmons."

And that's when he feels it, like a hundred punches to the stomach, a burning, itching in his chest, and he _knows_ ; he's never known anything as much as he knows this: she's going to be in his life forever. His eyes water and he stumbles, letting go of her hand to catch himself on the edge of the lab bench beside him.

"Fitz? Are you all right?" She doesn't seem affected. In fact, almost insultingly, she tucks her pencil behind her ear, broadcasting her unaffectedness. He knows it's different for everyone, the epiphanous moment, but considering the bidirectional nature of these circumstances, shouldn't she at least have some idea what's happening to him?

He coughs out, "Ah, what did you say the name was on your tattoo before it changed?"

"I didn't." Her eyes narrow. "That's rather personal, seeing we've only just officially met."

"Right, yeah. No, of course." He ducks his head to hide the clammy flush that's still racing through his cheeks, and starts working on the experiment laid out in front of them. Because for whatever reason, Jemma Simmons doesn't want to admit he's her soulmate. _Am I really that bad? Is it my breath?_ A life-raft floats to mind. _She may not know._

"Leopold!" he blurts, startling her into very nearly dropping her stir stick.

"Fitz! Do you mind?" she huffs, indicating her splattered notebook. A moment later, she softens. "Sorry. Come again?"

"Oh! Just, forgot to introduce myself properly. _Leopold_ Fitz." He leans forward. Leopold is a much longer name to make a neck tattoo out of, anyway.

She blinks. "Very well… did you want me to call you by your first name?"

He definitely does not. But the reverse… "Do _you_ want me to call you Jemma?"

Her brow furrows disapprovingly. "We're meant to use our surnames, Fitz. It's standard protocol."

 _Protocol can't stand in the way of our love._ But what he says is, "Even for us?"

"Us?"

"Yeah. You know…" His head tilts. "… Partners?"

She angles her head towards him, squinting. "Are you sure you're quite all right?

"Delightful! Fine." _Oh, God, this is bad._ "Just, making sure you have all my… information." He smiles brightly and drums his fingers on the table.

She nods in appeasement. "Right-o, then! Filed away." She gives him an awkward salute, and he thinks he catches her biting down a smile. "Any other name-related business, or can we get back to work?"

They retreat then into the safety of schoolwork, and manage to finish the experiment in record time despite the initial delay. There are no fluttering lashes, no gasping breaths when they both reach for the kimwipes and their fingers brush. The stars are around her neck, not in her eyes.

And it's a better time than he's ever had in a classroom. This—the lab—feels _theirs_. So while he's confused by her avoidance, he won't push. Hadn't she told Vaughn she wasn't ready for romance and marriage and all that, just days before? His brain even spins wild theories about his soulmark, hinting perhaps that handshake wasn't about Simmons at all, and perhaps he was hearing his true soulmate's voice for the first time from somewhere behind him. For all he knows, his destiny could've been sitting one table over. It's a stretch, but it's better than thinking she's rejected him outright.

That night, he stands in front of the mirror, strips off his undershirt and stares at the brand-new rose tattoo swirling over his chest. It cements her to him, and he welcomes the confinement, sighs in relief at the simple, strong certainty he's feeling. It _can't_ be a mistake. _I know your name, Fitz_ , she'd said, and the memory fills his lungs like sweet country air. He mouths her name and lets his fingertips trace the fine lines of the petals and thorns.

Right over his heart.

-o-

He makes her the necklace for their first Christmas, the mirror image to his tattoo. It's an inside joke (and so far he's the only one who seems to get it) but she loves it and puts it on immediately. He has to force his stare away when it settles over the stars at her neck, lining up perfectly. And he thinks again that if this is all they get, if Jemma was right and platonic soulmates are more common than everyone thinks, then he's happy just to have her in his life and in his lab. After all, they've moved from academic partners to best friends now, complete with late nights and shared laptop screens, mugs of tea and heavy textbooks, and he'd gladly tell anyone who asked that this is already the best his life has ever been.

She still hasn't mentioned her soulmark, or asked about his, but he reckons that's normal, a byproduct of being such a personal topic. So he bides his time, secure in their friendship and cautiously optimistic for a future he thinks is just around the corner. And while, on some late nights, the insidious voice of doubt whispers that he _was_ the one who brought up unrequited soulmates in the first place, that can't be what this is. They have too much in common. For Christ's sake, even their _flaws_ knit together like teeth in a zipper. He's her soulmate. Whether she knows it yet, _he_ does, and he'll wait as long as he needs to to prove it.

-o-

It happens during their second Christmas together.

He's sitting cross-legged on her childhood bed, thumbing through an issue of Popular Science that has to be from the 90s, and catches a glimpse of cursive, surrounded by a doodled heart. It's the name he's been waiting to learn, and it's on practically every page. As his breath catches and he flips wildly through the pages, the sight of it in Jemma's loopy script sears into his brain.

 _Will Daniels._

"Hey, Simmons?" It comes out steadier than expected, but that doesn't help. "Simmons? Is this…" He clears his throat, tapping on the glossy pages so he won't tempt his voice to crack.

"Oh." She takes the magazine from him, looking down as a creeping pink stains her cheeks. "Yes, that's him. Though considering I no longer see his name, he could be dead." The softness in her tone sells out her nonchalance. "I imagine I'd feel it if he were, but—" Her hands twist timidly. "I've stopped looking, of course. Even before my mark changed, Will Daniels was far too common a name for me to reliably search him out by."

Fitz's eyes hurt, and more so when he makes himself look at her. _Unrequited._ No wonder she never spoke to him about it; he wasn't the guy. He _isn't_ the guy. And while he already knew Dr. Vaughn was an asshole, turns out the man is also a goddamn liar because his infallible universe is a flighty harlot who just buggered him into next Tuesday.

 _But not Jemma._ Whatever she thinks of him, she's still _his_ soulmate. He clears his throat again, and it's a bit easier the second time.

"Okay." He reaches over and squeezes her hand. "Maybe, maybe it _is_ a popular name, yeah? But c'mon. It's still worth looking." He exhales—a hard, beggar's breath—and takes his hand back. "And besides, you didn't have _me_ helping you before."

-o-

Fitz has a poster of space.

It's the first thing Jemma sees when they move into their shared flat and start unpacking, is that framed poster propped against a stack of plastic bins. Her hand flies to her neck and begins tracing the stars, only to drop guiltily when Fitz staggers in carrying the last of the boxes.

If pressed, she would say she and Fitz have always just been friends, that she's never dreamed they might be anything else, and why would she: with the knowledge of her soulmate's name firm in her memory, why should she go looking for romance?

But, if pressed, she would be lying. Despite her teenaged realization that she definitely did _not_ need a soulmate at all, that she could make her way in the world quite happily without worrying about her tattoo one way or another, she'd be lying if she said it doesn't gnaw at her brain, little hamster teeth, on rainy nights when the drum of water lulls her enough to let old doubts surface. She worries about Will, whether he's alive, or happy, whether he's looking for her. She lets herself imagine his face, feeling guilty that she hasn't done more on her end. And, of course, in a few exceedingly quiet moments, when her imaginary Will takes on bright blue eyes and curly hair she wonders if the universe got it wrong. She's well aware of how brilliantly she and Fitz get on, with the proof sitting in front of her labeled "bedding" and "kitchenware", but she's never had _Fitz's_ name on her skin and, after all, he _was_ her first true friend. She never even had to look for him. Isn't it more likely that he simply seems like he _could_ be her soulmate, rather than that he _is_?

Only now, ever since that fateful Christmas at her parents', Jemma's been forced to consider her soulmark much more often. Fitz, the dear, dear man, seems half in love with Will himself. He's spent so many hours searching—for _her_ soulmate—that it feels almost wrong of her not to want to run into destiny's waiting arms. And when she chides him for not putting the same effort into his own tattoo, he rubs at the back of his neck and mutters something about things happening when they happen.

It's almost too much. In a desperate straw-grasp her last year at the Academy, she even agreed to go out with that Brussels-sprout _Milton_ , after hearing an office aide call two cadets out of class with a, "Will Daniels Milton and Priya Buddharaju please report to Agent Huang's office?" Fitz, of course, teased her mercilessly when he found out her reasoning. When she protested that it was under his influence she'd even felt compelled to try, he flushed and allowed that _yes, all right_ , a longshot was probably worth a few bad dates.

-o-

When she chews her lip and holds out the dossier with the SHIELD-616 assignment, Jemma stammers out a carefully prepared list of reasons they should sign up, and for a minute Fitz wonders if Jemma's worried he'd actually leave her. He resists on principle, because yes, he does think it's dangerous and no, he doesn't fancy the prospect of trying to conduct their experiments with bullets whizzing past. They wind each other up until she's red-faced and indignant, going so far as to call him a fool for passing on the offer.

She needn't have worried. _Of course_ he goes into the field with her. What else was he going to do? If nothing else, joining a mobile command unit will put them in the path of far more people, and maybe one of them will finally be able to have their happy ending.

He knows everyone assumes they're soulmates already. They've even managed to acquire a portmanteau somewhere along the line, which Coulson delights in using, and neither he nor Jemma offers to correct him. When so many other teams make do with just one lead scientist, Fitz suspects it's one of the main reasons they were offered the assignment together. So he keeps his head down, befriends Skye and Ward, stays out of May's way, and tries not to think of Coulson _too_ much as the father he might have had. His days are filled with the girl he loves, and he _lives in the sky_ , for crying out loud. It's the stuff of storybooks. He's _lucky_. But laying in his bunk at night, listening to the whirr of the airplane engine and the hiss of recycled air, Fitz worries about himself, and thinks ahead to the day she goes.

-o-

She looks wan, sickly and pale, and as beautiful as he's ever imagined. Mostly, though, she looks afraid.

"You can't be in here!"

"Too late, it's done." As if he's ever worried about the rules when it came to Jemma. "Just try and do your best to keep your hands off me, yeah?"

Not because he would die. But because she might distract him too much to save her.

"Fitz, I don't know what you think you're doing, but—"

"I'm doing what we always do." There is _no bloody way_ he gets to have known his soulmate, to have shared lab space and popcorn and physics puns, if she doesn't get the same chance. "We're gonna fix this. Together."

-o-

"What are you saying?" She stares at his bloodied face, his reluctance answering where he won't. "There _is_ no way out." Her lips press together to stop them wobbling. "We're going to die down here."

It's fitting, she knows, that they're down here together. Two lonely kids who found each other instead of their soulmates, and made a life of it. Once the reality of their circumstances sink in, it's not at all difficult to accept that her last moments will be with Fitz at her side. In that moment, she only wishes she could have discovered who he was meant for, instead of spending all his time on her. So she does her best to find some beauty in their death, to distract them both from their fear with lovely words and thoughts, and discovers that as much as she's keeping a stiff upper lip for his sake, he's the one comforting her.

And she does her best to be brave.

-o-

He knows he can't survive this. He knew the minute he woke up with a broken arm, 90 feet below the sea, with no supplies, no flotation, and nobody looking. _Nobody looking._ How funny would it be if Jemma's soulmate suddenly popped up in a submarine, waving at them through the pod window, finally come to steal his happiness from him? Right now, he'd throw the man a ticker-tape parade.

Jemma starts going on about the glass, about ethanol and flash points and suddenly, they're bickering, and just as quickly he's jumping up towards her in excitement. The pain in his arm is almost enough to knock him unconscious, but he can't pass out; he's got a job to do. He's got to get Jemma out of this wretched underwater grave and back to the life she's meant to live.

-o-

"I couldn't live if you didn't." God, she doesn't even _know_ how true that is for him, but she's barrelling past him in her stubborn, wonderful indignation.

"Well, I feel the same way!" She's bewildered, shaking her head like he's suggested they call scones _biscuits_. "There has to be another way!"

He drinks her in, holding the mask out to her. "You're taking it."

"Why?" Anger hurries her voice, interrupting him. "Why would you make me do this? You're my best friend in the world!"

But that's just it. "You're more than that, Jemma. I couldn't find the courage to tell you." In the moments that follow, he uses her shock to his advantage, pressing the mask into her hands and pulling up his shirt to expose his soulmark.

"So, please. Let me show you."

-o-

It's the longest nine days of her life. The bombshell Fitz dropped left her, quite literally, adrift, and now she's stuck in a limbo of uncertainty and concern. It upsets every routine and plan she makes, keeps her from focusing on the medical journals she's requested, and brings wracking sobs to her chest when the clock reminds her it's late enough that no one, save Fitz, is likely to hear.

She remembers, distinctly, the lone time she ever visited a water park, and feels once more as if she's stuck in a queue, climbing slowly up the stairs, waiting to go down a toboggan slide. Steps are taken, one foot in front of the other, ponderously slow even as the people around her chivvy her on. Somehow, she rises, up and up and up, dreading the slippery drop at the end, wondering the entire time if she'll have what it takes. But she persists, knowing full well that the slide doesn't admit the weak of heart.

She's Fitz's soulmate. It doesn't make _sense_ , she thinks, and yet it's the final corner piece to the jigsaw carved on her heart. But he _lied_ to her. He _never_ said, and _he_ was the one who encouraged her to seek out Will. Jemma forces herself to reexamine each of their interactions in this new light, and emerges gasping, even more lost than before.

Fitz gave her the oxygen, so why can't she breathe?

-o-

He's known all along she would leave him someday. He just didn't think it would be on her own.

And after all the times he's prepared himself to be alone, his brain makes sure she didn't really leave him after all.

Perhaps this is what Dr. Vaughn meant when he said your soulmate stays with you forever.

-o-

The past year's been everything short of impossible, but finally, finally, he and Jemma are back in a good place. He's managed to convince himself it's fine if they never have that conversation, that finishing each other's sentences again is more important than knowing why she would abandon her best friend for Hydra, of all places.

And they certainly don't need to talk about his confession. It's not as if she can snap her fingers and make him her soulmate. The anger he felt—and any loyalty he expected—it was always for the sake of their friendship, nothing more. And that, at least, seems to have been restored.

So as far as Fitz is concerned, no, they don't need to talk about what he said at the bottom of the ocean. He tells her as much when she has the catastrophically poor timing of dredging it up just as he's headed off to war.

"There's nothing to discuss, Jemma."

She catches his hand. "Maybe there is."

He floats on the thermals of a universe-defying hope, and comes back alive.

-o-

She doesn't know why she agrees to dinner, only that it's the first thing that feels right in a long, long time.

And still, a life of being told what she should want nags at her. _Should_ she be saving herself for her soulmate? Surely she's tempting fate, taking Fitz up on his invitation, knowing how easily it could all fall apart. He loves her, he loves her _so much_ , and in a different life, she would have no qualms about returning the sentiment. But giddy smiles and the excited flutter in her chest aren't a guarantee, and Fitz deserves at least that much.

After all, hasn't she hurt him enough?

-o-

She crashes onto the sandy blue wasteland and waits for the disbelief to catch up to her. She follows protocol, takes photos, gives her report, and stays put. It gives her plenty of free time to study her surroundings. After the shock of seeing two moons wears off, she notices the night sky, a midnight blue that bleeds down into the dusty blue of the planet. But it's the constellations that catch her eye.

Because she's been staring at some of those same constellations on her neck since she was thirteen.

-o-

" _This?_ " she screams, crying dry tears of exhaustion, making sounds that could pass as laughter if anything about about this were funny. " _This_ is what I was 'destined' for? This, this _Hell_?"

If she ever needed proof that her soulmark was a mistake, it's the harsh, _empty_ desert she's been dropped into. No one could survive here.

She screams until her throat is hoarse, lashing out at the sky and spitting fire into a void. She begs for the sun, for her old life, for Fitz. But this is what the universe intended for her, isn't it? Perhaps this is her punishment for wanting to change her fate. She's found her answer, but been cheated out of her happiness.

In a fit of rage she tears a sleeve off her shirt and wraps it around her neck, covering the tattoo she can no longer stand.

-o-

He keeps her in a cage and feeds her like a dog. He pokes at her with a branch, refusing to talk. There's no reaction when she tells him her name, and what would she say, anyway? "Hello, jailor, I promise I'm not a figment of your imagination—in fact, the odds are quite good I'm your soulmate? Please don't fatten me up only to murder and eat me?"

Ridiculous.

He hasn't got a tattoo that she can see and she crosses her fingers that this gruff, horrible, stabby man is somehow _not_ her cosmic match. The moment she can escape, she's out of his cave, and he chases her down like a stampeding beast.

But he rescues her from the sand.

-o-

She learns his name, and it's the one she expected.

He's the right guy, but the circumstances are all, all wrong. How is she supposed to love this angry, half-mad castaway who's so far beyond "not sciency" that he doesn't even recognize the stars around her neck? So she stays quiet and doesn't let on she's been led to him, focusing instead on trying to get home. They can have their happy ending there, she tells herself. They just have to make it back.

-o-

"That's Fitz there." She grips her phone a bit tighter.

"Yeah, I figured." Will smiles with subdued affection. "You talk about him a lot. His name is like your favorite word."

She doesn't need two PhDs to see what he's getting at.

"I mean," he continues with a knowing smile, "that's a little bit more than a best friend."

"Oh," she laughs quietly. "We're inseparable."

It's the perfect time to correct him. She and Will are getting on now like a house on fire, and it isn't right to lie to her soulmate. But that night, she lays in bed for an hour, wondering why it doesn't bother her that she didn't.

-o-

"Damn it, Fitz! What are we missing?" She's talking to herself again, which is evidently what one does while slowly going mad in isolation.

She's stumbled into a mass grave and it's the most fascinating thing she's ever seen. Hundreds of years of travelers, people who've come here in a bid to discover this planet's secrets, armed with ancient swords and wine and astrolabes. _Astrolabes._

"The stars." She looks up, grinning in thanks. "Fitz, that's the answer!"

She's going home, and for the first time in a long while, she doesn't mind the constellations on her neck. Because while she's always known that the stars would play a hand in leading her where she's meant to be, this might be the only time she's truly believed it.

-o-

She's had a lot of time to think, here. She thinks about Will, and Fitz, and her entire life up to this point. And the truth is, she'll have quite a decision when she returns to Earth. Because yes, she may have begun having feelings for Will, but she doesn't _care_ what the universe tells her to do. This is her life, and she'll be damned if she lets a splash of cosmic ink dictate her path.

-o-

When the bottle breaks, she breaks.

She's lost all chance of getting herself home. Her tattoo burns and darkens, tightening the skin around her neck like a noose. Next to her, Will gasps out a pained wheeze, and when she turns to him, he's got a matching soulmark, the perfect twin to hers. He looks at her in a daze, incredulous eyes striking hers as his fingertips brush the dark blue lines branded in his skin.

She feels it, now, the crushing conviction, and she sways on the cliffside where she stands. Sand slips under her feet, tempting her, but Will shouts her name and grabs her wrist to drag her back, and she _knows_. There's no delaying her future anymore.

-o-

Falling in love with Will is like a plane crash. It's heat, and desperation, and making the most of what life she has left. She thinks, sometimes, that she's allowed herself to be consumed by a love that rivals the destruction around them.

It's not happily ever after, not the way she envisioned it, but it's enough.

The hard work of making themselves a life in the midst of desolation seems a bit more bearable with Will to share it. It's an odd thought, that sitting at a man's side and knowing they'll die together should bring her déjà vu, but much like the first time, she finds it's not so hard to be brave.

-o-

The flare reflects in her eyes, a burst of orange in stark counterpoint to the color that now dominates her life.

"It's Fitz."

She's going home; she can feel it, the conviction tingling inside her skull. She'd thought, between the two of them, she was the one who taunted fate, but as she soon learns, Fitz is capable of defying every law in the universe.

Will is nothing short of valiant, urging her on, protecting her, pushing her back to Fitz. (So perhaps she has a 'type' after all.) She pleads, screams, tries to drag him with her. But when she has to make a choice, between staying with Will or going to Fitz, she surprises herself once more.

-o-

They pulled off a miracle today. Fitz lets himself be proud of that. Months on months of exhaustive searching, of begging, of wheeling and dealing and playing on people's sympathies. Of risking his life to scrape up the merest inkling of a clue, of pointing to his soulmark and insisting she was alive, knowing he'd keep looking even when his team and everyone around him gave up. And he did it. _He_ got her back. She's never really been his, but she's as close as he's ever going to get.

In the euphoria of triumph, in between the sheer relief, the worry, and the pride, he lets himself dote on her as much as he wants. Not because he loves her, which he does, or because she's a fragile shell of herself, which she seems, but because, quite simply, he's done trying to hide his feelings. The jig is up. If she'd died out there, he doubts he'd be patting himself on the back for all the restraint he showed, all the times he _didn't_ treat her like she's the best thing on Earth.

Somewhere in between thought and action, a sneaking, dangerous hope creeps in. Because he's just done the impossible, hasn't he? And Jemma may not have his soulmark, but she didn't start with the one she's got, either. If Daisy can change her biology, he dares to think, then maybe Jemma can rewrite the name printed on her heart.

-o-

She thinks Fitz would understand. She hopes he would, anyway. But she can't bring herself to tell him that she found her soulmate in the least likely place imaginable. Not when Fitz is staring at her like he's hearing a violin for the first time, and not when his hand feels like it's been returned to its rightful place in hers. She tells herself that Will is lost: the monolith is destroyed, she rationalizes, and even if he survived, he's sure to have been possessed by the creature by now.

But she can't bear to leave Will behind. Her tattoo might be dark, yes, but midnight blue isn't black (though at times, she's sure her mirror is playing tricks on her). And what's more, had Will been nothing more than a friend she made to survive in a lightless place, she could never just abandon him to his fate. Not without doing absolutely everything she can. So as much as it hurts to tell Fitz, if she's going to get her soulmate back, she can't do it by halves.

Not even if it means being torn in half herself.

-o-

If she thought Fitz was passionate about the search for Will before, this time around he's a man possessed.

"At least now we know why we had such a difficult time tracking him down before," he says with forced levity. "Though, perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. Overachiever."

She lifts her gaze from the data in front of her and rubs at her aching temple. She can't take his teasing, not when the nostalgia of it slams into her gut and leaves her shaking.

He chuckles. "Only you would have a soulmate that required you to cross all of space and time to find him."

 _You did as well,_ she thinks. But instead she whispers, "Please, stop."

He doesn't joke much after that.

-o-

It comes as a blessed relief when he finally loses it.

"You think that I'm _not_ angry?" The floodgates open. "I'm sick to my stomach, I'm furious!" She welcomes the flinch that his anger brings, something to distract her from drowning in guilt. "But not at you! 'Cause we're cursed!" His hands lift, impotently, from his sides and fall back in defeat. "The bloody cosmos wants us to be apart."

The cosmos doesn't want that, she tells him. Soulmarks are meant to bring people together, not keep them apart. She has to believe that, if nothing else, because despite Fitz ticking off the evidence stacked against them, she can't believe in a world that would conspire against her.

-o-

If falling for Will was like a plane crash, then falling in love with Fitz was like riding a bike. Yes, it was slower, and took more strength, but she was able to appreciate the journey. She could watch the landscape as it changed around her. She could feel the burn in her muscles, breathe the grass-scented air and let it sing through her lungs. Falling in love with Fitz meant she chose to keep going, even when the terrain shifted and turned rocky underneath her. And if sometimes it wasn't clear whether she was going to make it, in the end the destination was the same.

-o-

"Do you love him?" The pain in his voice blows towards her like pulverized chalk.

He's asking the wrong question. Will is her soulmate; of course she loves him.

"Yes."

But she can _choose_ to love Fitz.

And when he kisses her, and she kisses him back, she discovers she wants to.

-o-

 _some months later_

-o-

Jemma's elbows gave out and she fell forward into her pillow, riding out the last dregs of her orgasm, feeling the pleasure ebb away in concentric circles. Gratefully, she arched her back to help Fitz along, and it was mere moments before she felt his hips stutter. He cried out—a garbled, high-pitched thing—and his own arms seemed to fail as he followed her into oblivion, crashing heavy on top of her back.

They lay that way for a pause, enjoying the connection, letting him catch his breath. The fact that they could be like this, easy, sated, just taking in the sound of each other's heartbeat—well, it was no small thing, after all. But eventually, she bounced her hips in an attempt to throw him off.

"Fitz," she chided without censure. "You're heavy."

His only answer was a muffled, "You're pretty."

"And yet," she grunted out, wriggling under him, "that does not help me breathe when I'm being crushed."

He snorted. "I can't believe _you_ , of all people, would accuse me of not helping you breathe."

She barked out an incredulous laugh but played along anyway. "Oh my God, Fitz, that was _one_ time. What have you done for me lately?"

He snickered, and finally rolled off. "You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously hot."

"Won't get an argument from me."

"I meant because you were on me like a quilt, you oaf." She reached out and ran a hand through his damp hair. "Now I'm all sweaty."

"Oh, no," he deadpanned, as he pulled off the condom and wrapped it in a tissue. "We'll have to shower together."

She marveled at their ability to joke around, especially about their past. It had been a long road. As much as she loved him, Fitz was often blockaded with self-doubt and an unnecessary tendency towards martyrdom, and on bad days, when his hand was acting up and his internal bullies were whispering in his ear, Fitz managed to convince himself that she'd be better off without him.

"It's not as if I'm _your_ soulmate," he'd insist, and she'd wrap unshakeable arms around him and kiss every inch of his face that she could reach. When he'd calmed down enough, she'd reassure him, as she had so many times. " _Why would you want a stamp of approval from a cosmos that, by your own admission, is out to get you? We traveled galaxies to find each other. Shouldn't that be enough?"_

Because, with the perspective of experience came the certainty that Fitz _was_ her soulmate. She might not have his name on her neck, but she saw the stars in his eyes. True, she'd felt her soulmark flare with Will, but those feelings were mirrored, improved on even, in her relationship with Fitz. She felt the passion that spouses and romantics described whenever the conversation would turn towards soulmates. She never questioned that she and Fitz would be there for each other as long as they lived. It had taken her a while to see it, but as far as she was concerned, once Will's name had disappeared off her neck, all bets were off. Why _shouldn't_ she have two soulmates?

She was brought back to the present by the drift of Fitz's gentle fingers on her back. Skimming across her hips, up her spine, tracing over her shoulder blades before combing through her hair, Fitz drew his love for her in silky patterns and spelled it out in the electric hum of his nails on her naked skin.

With a sigh, she turned on to her side, and Fitz's fingertips made their way to her collarbone, rubbing lightly at the line of stars there. "I'm sorry you lost your necklace."

"It wasn't your fault," she protested, wondering what brought this on. Perhaps she wasn't the only one revisiting memory lane.

"Doesn't have to be my fault for me to be sorry," he said simply, and she flashed back to that first Christmas together, and how happy she'd been, trying it on. God, they'd been so _young_. But there was no point in dwelling on things lost, and her mood was too light for these melancholy tangents.

"You know," she started with a wink in her voice, "It's rather presumptuous, crafting a necklace for a girl based on your own soulmark. Some would say egotistical."

"Couldn't help it." The corners of his mouth crept up. "As soon as I saw it, I said, 'Now that's a good-looking mark. Reminds me of someone.'" He pressed a theatrical hand against the tattoo on his chest. "My English rose."

Her nose wrinkled. "Fitz, no."

He shrugged, unapologetic. "The cosmos decided it, not me." He kissed the disgruntled crease in between her brows.

"Ugh, not the bloody cosmos again. What has it got against me?"

"Well, you are the only person I know who tells it to go fuck itself with any regularity."

"I suppose I've crossed the universe in more ways than one, then." A lightbulb went off inside her head, and she smirked. "Hey, Fitz."

"Hmm?"

"You know what would _really_ piss off the cosmos?"

-o-

"Jemma, when you said 'something crazy' I thought you meant, I dunno, we'd get married or adopt a cat or something! Not this!" His hushed voice carried through the air as they followed Hunter's associate through a twisting maze of hallways and unmarked doors. "You could lose your promotion!"

"Oh, tosh," she tutted. "It's not as if we're doing anything illegal."

"We might as well be! You know the higher-ups' attitude towards personal tattoos, Jemma or do you not remember that day at Orientation?" He began to tick items off on his fingers, still whispering frantically. "Multiple tattoos are considered not only 'cosmically dishonest'—"

Her eyes rolled. "Thanks, Dr. Vaughn."

"—but also gaudy, unprofessional, and too distinctive for people in our line of work!" He turned a pleading gaze on her. "And, you know I'm squeamish."

"Fitz." She halted, grabbing his hand and squeezing tight. "I want to do this. I want your mark on my skin." She pulled him along and hurried after their guide.

"Wouldn't you rather get married? My mum's probably got a wedding planner on speed dial—"

"Maybe after," she considered.

"Jemma…" He sighed. "You seem really set on doing this—"

"I am."

"Please, just." He cut off as they reached their destination. Standing in the open doorway, he took her in his arms and whispered, "Promise me you won't regret this."

"Oh, Fitz." Her mind raced with possible responses. "There are so many things I regret, but loving you is never going to be one of them. And," she shrugged, "if the universe won't sign its approval in ink, then… well, we'll just do it ourselves." She brushed a quick kiss along his cheek. "I'm not afraid."

"Okay." He let out a breath and stepped back. "Let's go."

-o-

Jemma exhaled slowly through her nose as the tattoo artist worked. There was a reason Hunter had recommended Kisa; she was methodical, first using a Polaroid to draw a detailed stencil, consulting with the them both to make sure there'd be no surprises in the final product. Kisa prepped her workspace with an attention to cleanliness that rivaled Jemma's own, or perhaps even her mum's. She'd spent a few minutes watching Kisa wipe down and sanitize each surface, and sated her lab-protocol side by discussing the procedures in place to minimize risk of infection (if only to preempt any further objections from Fitz before he could raise them). And finally, here they all were, Fitz looking on and away in equal parts as the rat-a-tat of the tattoo gun sketched fate cross her breastbone.

"That's the outline finished," said Kisa, dabbing at a spot of stray blood with an antiseptic wipe before snapping off her gloves and tossing them into the trash. "I'm just gonna switch out ink colors real quick." She ducked into a side room, throwing Fitz a reassuring smile that showed off the gap in her teeth. "It's going really well!"

Jemma could see it in Fitz's face, how little he wanted to watch a needle repeatedly jab into her flesh, as well as how willing he was to be strong and present for her.

"Looks good," he commented, even as he swallowed a grimace. "Dunno how we're gonna explain it at work, though."

"So I'll wear higher collars." She squeezed his hand. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Yeah, yep, delightful." He pointedly averted his gaze from another dot of pooling blood.

"It'll be worth it." And it was. It seemed perfectly symbolic, she felt, to take the tattoo that connected her to Will and add onto it, making it more beautiful with an image just for Fitz. A rose pendant on a chain of stars: two men in her life, two tattoos around her neck, and all of it combined into one magnificent picture.

"You know, perhaps it's good that I left my necklace behind on Maveth," she murmured. "I think I'll like this one even better."

Fitz looked at her, mouth dropping open in that dopey, wonderstruck way of his. "Yeah," he said softly. "And, well— it's sort of, y'know, almost like a piece of you that got to stay behind with Will. To be with him at the end, yeah?" He flushed. "Sorry, that— I dunno why I said that—"

"No, it's lovely." She blinked away tears, not just from the pain of her raw tattoo. "Thank you, Fitz."

Kisa bounced back in, grabbing a fresh pair of gloves and ripping open a pre-packaged needle. "Alright, ready for color?"

"Definitely."

Jemma settled in and waited for the now-familiar sting of the inking gun to begin. After a moment, she felt the instrument come down, gritted her teeth against the jarring vibration of the metal tip against her breastbone. And then, with a small gasp and no warning whatsoever, Kisa stopped.

The pain at her chest magnified, burning blue at the edges and stretching hot fingers up into her scalp. For one shuddering second, Jemma was convinced something had gone wrong, that Kisa had inadvertently punctured a vital organ and that the patriarchy's admonitions against personal tattoos were completely justified. _Fitz is never going to let me live this down_. Assuming, of course, she did live.

But, just like that, the pain vanished. A heartbeat later it was as if ink and steel had never touched her. Her skin felt whole, and new, in brazen disregard for the moment before, and with the absence of pain, Jemma noticed a tingle, a low buzz that started in her chest and wiggled down to her fingers and toes. It was something akin to excitement, spreading curiosity through her body, and the minute Kisa stepped back, Jemma sat up, a breathless flush painting her cheeks.

Wordlessly, Kisa grabbed the hand mirror she kept at her station, and held it up. "Congratulations," she gaped.

It took a second to register. Jemma brought a hand against her trembling lips, pride and disbelief warring at the sight of her new tattoo—the one that Jemma may have chosen, Kisa may have started, but the universe had seen fit to finish. Laughing breathlessly, she ran her fingers over the healed skin, every color shaded perfectly, every detail just the way she'd imagined.

"Jemma."

She met Fitz's awed stare, and her smile turned blinding, triumph splitting her cheeks.

 _Cosmos: 0_ — _Jemma: 1_

-fin-

* * *

 **Okay, so real talk, I actually wrote farther on than the lab kiss in canon, but I figured, it was important that Jemma "choose" Fitz before Will was totally out of the picture. Also, as far as the stuff that happened around Will's death, I've already covered that in my fic The Will of the Few.**

 **Please forgive the present-tense to past-tense shift in between the sections of the story. They were originally posted as separate chapters and written separately, and I didn't have the mental wherewithal to go through and edit Part 2 to make it present tense.**

 **Thanks as always to my amazing betas!**

 **The quote at the top is from Rachel Platten's Stand By You, one of my go-to FitzSimmons songs. That line in particular, I feel, works for both FS and Will/Jemma.**

 **Hope you liked it!**


End file.
